Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

Plßl’- 11''. l\i ■* ‘* ‘ 7 -’ :y ‘ f[ l( ir.’(, vi:\i: ‘.': ‘ VvlfOl,[::,!! ‘ i semm nma mau-aimi to htsmtok, m ms mb tmm, m n am amns. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. GEORGIA. BY JACQUES JOUBNOT. Blessings on thee, Land of Beauty, Sleeping in a sunny tlimo — Blessings on thy hills and rallies, — I invoke them in my rhyme ! Far an.l wide my steps may wander, Fairer scenes may meet my eyes, But my soul will chcri.-h ever, Memories of thy glorious skies. Nor: hw.ird, ’gainst the quiet heavens, Thy blue mountain harriers 1 iso, And above thy foaming torrents Glow the iris’ radiant dies. There Tallulah dashes madly Through the suud red granite hills, And a sense of awful beouty All the gazer's being fills. Anl Toccoa , haunt of fairies, And Nacoochee's valley sweet, Where the shining Chattahoochee , Stars and sun h.nc love to greet; And Mount Yonah, soarii g proudly, Where the wiads are pure and free, Wafts a gr eti g on their pi. ions, To his neighbor Currahce. Thine the Maintain Rock of Granite, Rising ’mid thy fertil plai s, — Nature's everlasting wat. htower, Looking o’er thy wide and * mains: Lookii g northward to the mountains— .cou‘hward o’er savannas wide, Where, through dark lagoons and marshes, Flows the Altamaha & tide. Tlii e the lovely Forest City , II onaveut lire's wealth of shade— Classic Athens— se it of Learning, And Augusta's mat t of Trade ! Macon's t l.i ean l fair Columbus, And Atlanta's r.usv s*rect, And the pride of Rome the western, Whore Coosa's tribute waters meet. But thy proudest treasures, Georgia, Are thy Sons, so brave and true, And thy gentle, bright-eyed Daughters , Who with ’oveour souls imbue : Thine thr* valiant and the lovely— Manhood's strength and woman’s charms, And thy Homes adorned by Beauty, Guarded are by Valor's arms Athens, Ga. -J JJB c? S ■'- Y * y\. “’ i- ‘ **S *N c “** ■ ■ ~ 1 -* - ■- —* For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. MEMOR I E S. BY BAYAHD. Chapter Fir t . The Past! the half forgotten past! that hlurM and blotted scroll on which are writen the happy scenes of childhood, the joyous records of youth and the saddened delights of more mature years. How one’s heart loves to linger over the past! and while memory strays hack and struggles to recall its dreamy realities-the mind is filled with transcient but exquisite happiness as its hopes, joys, anticipations and delights once thronging to the bar of the ever-passing present. I remember the spot where I was born. And beneath the tall old elms which grew, with a wild beauty, near m v father’s house, and threw their graceful branches to the f'kv I have often reclined at the close of the day and given loose reins to my boyish fancy. Thither my imagination bears me now, and I can recall many of the bright mo ments I spent there. The sad realities of life, can never entirely erase them from the scroll—the heart —that strange tissue of passions—will draw its purest joys from those unfolgotten childhood-hours. 1 used to wonder—as I lay upon the earth’s green carpet, beneath those noble elms— and looked up into the blue sky— and heard the birds singing so sweetly— while the cool, refreshing breeze kissed my cheek— who made the world and who taught the birds such merry songsand how it was that my heart kept beating in such tegular measure. And remember too at evening—when n pht's dark man- tie was thrown upon tlie earth, I used to kneel beside my mother’s knee, and from tlie depths of llmt mother’s love draw those holy lessons which a mother only can im part. Then I knew nothing of the calami ties of the world—l knew not how many struggled with an “o’er-mastering destiny’’ —I thought not of poor houseless poverty —of oppression—or of vice—all was bright, beautiful and good. Then life’s placid stream flowed on, its surface ruffled only by the silvery ripples of content. As my eye glances over the scroll. I can see there half told tales of boyish love— and boyish friendship. Some of them were blotted out by the angel of Death. And I might stroll about the old grave-yard of the village church and read many a name, gra ven on the marble tombs, that is linked with the happiest scenes written on the scroll. As time swept along the record is defaced by the ink-drops of sadness—l had two friends, two earnest and devoted friends— but they are dead. Both have gone down to the grave, and ere Time’s defacing finger shall wipe the record out, I will re-write the history of each, oecause there is a moral in it. Henry Welwood was left an orphan at the age of ten. He was not dependent on the cold charities of the world and was not therefore subjected to the withering glances or contemptuous smiles of those among whom his lot was cast. His education was carefully attended to, and fortunately the early’ impressions he had received from a Faint-like mother were sufficient to give his mind a proper bias. As he grew up, the graces of his intellect were mirrored in the beauties of his person. He had a full, fair front with an eye of richest hazle, while his Vermillion lips were as two bil ls of health expanding to full ripeness. High on his cheeks, the same mantling hue shed a softer light. Ilis hair was very black, and as some slragling curl fell upon his forehead and his eye looked out from be neath its black-singed curtains, in some moment of anxious expectation or delight —when his lips were parted and his whole countenance lit with animation —he was as perfect a study as ever madegla.l theheait of sculptor or painter. At College, Ilarry was a diligent student, and strict observer of every rule, no matter how stringent, and he bore away the hon ors of his class far before all his competit ors. He was urged to enter the legal pro fession, but finally adopted that of medi cine. Long hours of anxious thought were spent by him before he came to a de cision. An incident that occurred, while we were wandering among the green hills of our native village arrested his benevo lent heart to form its purpose. We had wandered a long way in that delightful conversation we were wont to engage in, when we suddenly came upon a hovel whose open doortetnp’ed ustoenter. Upon some straw in one corner of the mis erable hut lav the wasted form of a man of some forty years. The cold, damp up on his brow—the sunken eyes —the color less lips all told that he was fast passing away. As we entered, a little girl was giving him drink from a broken cup. Her melancholy countenance, shaded by luxu riant nut-brown hair, made her at the mo ment look very pretty, hut as she turned towards us, we saw that she was deform ed and crippled Here was distress and gloom. The wife and mother had been dead but a short time. Wc found on enquiry that the sick man, had been an honest laborer, earning a scanty support for his wife and child, by the sweat of his brow. He had never known much of prosperity, for his father had been a day-laborer, be fore him. As he lay there a deep, hollow cough that ever and anon shook his frame, showed how hopeless was his case. It sounded like his death knell. 0! how warmly he grasped Wei wood’s hand as he soothed his heart with the kind words the poverty-stricken know so well how to ap preciate. After doing what we could at the time to make him comfortable, we left with the promise that he should not be neglected, and that his daughter should be cared for. As we turned om steps homeward we neith er of us spoke for some time. Our hearts were too full. At last Welwood drew my arm in his and said, “I must begin my studies and 1 am determined to read medi cine. As 1 stood beside that sick man, I thought how exquisite the delight of do ing good, and doing it as the physician only can do it. I will devote my life and the talents committed to me, to the cause of human suffering. I have of this world’s goods enough and to spare and I feel that by lieinga comforter—by allaying bodily pain, and by stilling human sorrow, I may gain access to the hearts of those who else would he dead to sympathy—l am sure it will be good for my soul and teach me to look to God as the disposer of both good and ill, and to heaven as the reward of those who diligently seek Him. There is so much misery in the world—so much distress and so much suffering that to min ister consolation appears to me the noblest and most ennobling office of a human be ing. It may be true in sentimenl, as some would have us believe, that they who have never known prosperity can hardly be un happy—that it is from the remembrance of the joys we have lost that the arrows of affliction are pointed, but who, after wit nessing such a scene as we have just left, can believe it true in reality.” I was more than pleased at his words, for 1 had already determined to enter the medical profession, and I knew that we should once again be “College chums.” Chapter Second. Summer had faded. The crisp, amber leaves of Autumn lay like sackcloth on the ground—sad memorials of departed beauty. Around our fireside were gather ed kind and loving hearts, and as I looked upon the calm, still brow of my mother, and watched my sisters, as the merry laugh rang out in the fulness of happy thoughts, and saw my father smiling on them, I felt a sad weight upon my heart at the thoughts of leaving a home so dear. But the day of departure was at hand. Welwood was to be with me on the morrow, and we were to start together to a University in a neigh boring city, on the day following. Soon after his arrival Harry handed me a letter he had received from our mutual friend John Wilson, who, with his father, had been travelling through the eastern States. Welwood, Wilson and myself had graduated in the same class, and as we kept up a correspondence with him, during his absence, he had been informed of Har ry’s determination. This letter was in re ply to the one Harry had written him on the subject. It was as follows: My dearest IJal , And so you have determined to study Physic ! Physicians are an evil that can not well he dispensed with, as society is at present constituted, but 1 do not believe they were of much use, before the human race learned effeminacy Read the genealo gy, age and deaths of the patriarchs from Adam to Noah, and I think you will agree with me. My hair stands on end as I im agine the appearance of a well appointed dissecting room —ghastly bodies—skulls —human hones of ail soits and sizes, dried preparations black aprons, and scalpels are ail mingled in a confused mass as I contemplate the beauties of physic. What pleasure can there be in tracing out the arteries, veins, muscles and the thread-like nerves, to compensate for the disagreeable part of the study. You think, “it hard for a man to be an infidel who had ever seen a single demonstration of the exquisite mechanism of the human ho ly.” It may be so. but you are in no danger of infidelity. It is I. Do you remember how I shocked yourself and Frank by what I once said in jest of some of the scripture worthies'! You always, with your pliant faith, be lieved the Bible, word for word, from the first chapter of Genesis to the last of Rev elation. Call back to your remembrance some of tile subjects we used to discuss so warmly, and yet so kindly. You know 1 could never admit, for I never cou'd un derstand, bow all the races of men could ; ever have sprung from one pair, since they \ differ not only in color, but in other and more important particulars—and I can laugh now at the recollection of your dole ful countenance, as I hinted to you that ■ the Apocrypha might have been retained, seeing it was set aside by so small a ma jority in the Council. I have been wan | dering among some beautiful scenery of late, and perhaps if f had your analytical mind 1 might trace the finger of a present Deity in the heavens above and in the earth j beneath—when 1 have leisure 1 am determ* 1 ined to examine the subject more soberly i than I have ever yet been able to. As 1 yourself and Frank have concluded to read medicine—shining lights will you both he | —I will do so too, though 1 be nothing more than a tallow candle in comparison. Yes! I’ll read physic just for fun, and to quiet the old gentleman who came down i on me a few days since, and insisted that I should select some profession, and begin my studies, before himself and the old lady ! leave for Europe. I will meet you in New Y ork at the date you mention, for it will be just one week from the departure of the old folk in the Boston Steamer.— Y r ou must get a large room in the upper part of town, so that I can be with your self and Frank. Y'ours, Deo Gratia, JOHN. “Just like John,” I exclaimed as I hand ed the letter back to Ihrry. .“A creature of impulse and l think him altogether too precipitate in his determination ever to be satisfied. “Yes,” replied Welwood with a serious look “he should have made up his mind in a very different manner. A sense of duty, and a desire to please God ‘in all his works, begun, continued and ended,’ should have been the basis of so important a resolution. Without it, I fear his life will he a blank.” John Wilson had been nurtured in the lap of luxury—with an indulgent father and a partial mother—“he did as he pleased.” They never checked his “genius.” His parents paid outward respect to religion, at tended church regularly, and were “very charitable.” But they belonged to that class who think religion “good enough for the poor.” In their splendid mansion no altar was reared to shed its hallowed in fluence on their lives, and so they floated down the stream of time in the frail barn of prosperity, with no life-boat to bear them over the dark tide of death. At col lege John was literally “the clever fellow.” He never had an enemy. He excelled in no study except Mathematics. He had a passion for the game of chess, and much of his time was spent in smoking, and in the fascinating excitement of his games. He had a warm, generous heart and he would lavish his money wherever he found the semhlnn e of want, just because the sjght of poverty was painful to him. Asa consequence, his generosity was not well directed—but his faults were all hid beneath so glittering a garb, that they were seldom discovered. He was devotedly attached to Welwood and myself and as his regard was fully reciprocated, we anticipated great pleasure in his companionship, during the term of our medical studies. My baggage had all been carefully pack ed by my mother and sisters, and all my preparations completed by the eve of de parture. The evening had been passed in lively conversation: we had spoken of the pleasuies of a city life—of the sights to he seen and the p imp and circumstance, to be witnessed in the great metropolis of wealth and fashion. The hours glided by without our counting them—but as the old clock in the hall rang the hour for prayer my father drew his chair to the table on which lay the large antiquated Bible and a “Book of Common Prayer.” After reading a chap ter,as usual—we all kneeled down and ac companied him “with pure hearts and humble voices to the throne of heavenly grace.” Tears were in my mother’s eyes as we all kissed her “good night,” and my father’s voice faltered as he bid Harry and myself “be up with the lark.” Such was iny last evening at home. Chapter Third. A medical college in a large city, resort ed to as it is by young men from every State and Territory in the Union, presents a striking scene. Here are gathered the descendants of the pilgrim fathers —the frank and open hearted southrons. Here are young men from the “Far West,” and from that still undiscovered abiding place “Down East.” Mingling together, they crowd the halls of the University, and when the “gong” sounds the lecture hour they rush into the presence of the profes sor with as few outward tokens of respect to him, as care for their own bodily com fort. Here the race is literally to the swift and the battle to the strong. In the room, politeness is at a discount, the students not even troubling themselves to remove their hats. And I remember a quarrel between two room-mates, which originated in ‘.lie “ anatomical theatre” be cause tile one who sat on the lower bench would not allow his friend on the upper seat to put his feet on his broad-cloth, in order that he might with greater facility “take notes.” As Wilson had promised, he met Wel wood and myself in New Y ork, and we three entered the college together. The lectures had been in progress about a week when we arrived in the city, and the day after wc went to the college to attend the lecture on Chemistry. As we took our seats, we caught the close of a sentence, and I shad never forget it—“ Remember,’’ said the professor, “the tears which you shed to-day in the bitterness of your souls, crc long will appear m the heavens, in the bow of hope.” 1 thought of it often when hours of darkness came upon me. We had determined to begin the study of anatomy at once, it being a foundation without which a theoretical knowledge of medicine is of little avail, so without at tending the other lecture of the morning, we made our way to the “Dissecting Room.” We halted at the door, neither of us liking to enter, but Wilson, with a “ who’s afraid,” pushed it open and passed the threshold. The scene that met our gaze was indeed horrible to us who had never seriously considered what we should meet. On the floor lay four or five sub jects, their nakedness partially hid by some old sacks. In one corner of the room was suspended a skeleton, on this table was a mutilated arm, on that a half dissected foot. Hitman bones were scattered about, while the walls of the room were decorated with large anatomical plates. For a while a sickening sensation prevented our giving anything a very minute examination, but as it wore off, we approached one of the tables at which was seated a student, dili gently pursuing his studies, with forceps and scalpel in hand, and only looking up now and then to puff volumes of smoke from an old, oily pipe. As soon as we had made arrangements with the “Demon strator” to begin our dissections in the af ternoon —we left the room, glad to get once more into the pure atmosphere of heaven. That evening as we were sitting in our room conversing about various matters. Wilson remarked “ I felt as though I were committing murder when I made my first cut, nor has the feeling entirely worn off. I tell you boys it is awful. I must have wine to banish the thing from my mind.” “John,” said Harry, “1 fear you had not counted the cost, when you wrote me that you would study medicine for fun.” “No, I had not,” he replied, “ I thought if your gentility could stand it, mine would be able to ; but come, as you don’t drink, I’ll just imbibe, and then for a walk in the fresh air, if such a commodity is to be found in this ‘pent up Utica’.” We wandered down Broadway to the Park, and watched the fountain as it threw its chrystal jets high up among the trees, into the clear moonlight. We gazed at the fine specimens of architecture which in New York everywhere stand side by side with some dingy “two story” —as if to show how near poverty and xvealth can get. We passed by old Trinity, and stray ed beneath the trees along the winding paths on the Battery. What a beautiful and glorious scene the bay of New ork presented that night. Its waters were dotted by all sorts of craft, from the grace ful pleasure boat to the “Man o’War.” A flood of silvery light fell upon the tall cliffs of Staten Island and lit up the battle ments of Fort Williams on Governor’s Is land. As we gazed far down the bay on the silent scene—l anon looked up to where “ The sta s were oat in tlio silent sky Mute sentinels of Eternity.” We thought of home, and of our friends and wondered if they were talking of us. As we turned away poor Wei wood seized my arm and said, “My father and my mother are in heaven, hut I know they are looking down upon me now.” We walked home in silence, each occu pied with his own thoughts. We sat lip awhile after we reached the house, and chatted cheerfully for an hour. The wit of Wilson played over the surface of every thing we had witnessed through the day, and we retired to bed almost as happy as we could have been in our far away homes. Wei wood and myself were stowed away before Wilson had finished his cigar, and I heard him murmur as he extinguished the light, “I should not wonder if that subject should pay me a visit to-night.” My lids were soon lockeJ in sleep—sweet, refresh ing sleep —so refreshing that it seemed to retain a consciousness of its invigorating influence. Once I was partially roused by heaving, as I thought, some person speak ing in the room, 1 listened a moment, hut hearing nothing, was soon lost again to all sounds. 1 have no idea how long a nap I enjoyed, when I was effectually aroused by some peison grasping-me by the hair, and groaning in a deep sepulchral voice a few inarticulate words. Suddenly the hand relinquished its hold and a body fell heavily at my bedside. I called loudly for Wei wood, and obtaining a light with all possible speed, was amazed to find the in animate form of John Wilson, extended on the floor, with a deathly pallor on his countenance. He had fainted, hut by the application of proper restoratives he was soon recovered. When 1 asked him what had affected him thus, he quivered like an aspen-leaf—and begged me to bring him wine. As he became calm he gazed anxiously round, and exclaimed, “0! my God, what a vision f have had ! I saw that ghastly corpse we began dissecting, as plainly as ever I did any object in the broad light of day. It seemed to hover over me, and gazed at me with its fiery eyes. Its grave-clothes were hung loosely about it, and it waved its arms to and fro and groaned, while my very heart's blood ceas ed to flow. Its flesh gradually sunk away. and slimey worms crawled across its cheeks and fed upon its lips. Here and there upon its mouldy form, were livid spots, which seemed ready to drop from the bones. I could not move, but gazed at the spectre till suddenly its now bleached, and rattling hones fell forward upon me, and as they fell, I sprung upon the floor. Not lor worlds would I see that sight again. I should die. Chapter Fourth. The life of a medical student is of all others one of temptation. He is for a time cut off from his usual intercourse with the world in which he has been accustomed to move. Ilis aims are all his own —his ob jects and his pleasures. His whole time is engrossed by the studies necessary for him to go through in order that he may pass the ordeal of the “green room.” His mind is hurried and confused by the variety of subjects presented; and his body is ex hausted by being confined to hard and un comfortable benches, and when evening arrives, having no happy home to which he may resort —he naturally seeks pleasure from artificial excitement. No one, who is acquainted with the human heart, should think it strange, therefore, that young men whose principles are not firmly fixed, should foliow the bent of fancy, passion or cir cumstance. Vice is tricked off for them in the gaudy colors of pleasure, and the sting of intemperance is hid from their sight.— Too often, alas! the gaming table claims its votaries from among them. The victim seizes the poisoned goblet in a moment of delirious delight, and not till it has been drained to the dregs does he feel how hope lessly, how irretrievably lost he is—lost to himself, to his friends, and to the world. The session had advanced to within a month of its close. Welwood had been busy storing his mind with knowledge, and endeavoring to enrich his intellect with the lessons of wisdom, he knew so well how to trace to their proper source. He labored assiduously to become a good anatomist, and by his constant application, had advanced rapidly to the.consummation of his dasire. Wilson, on the other hand could never overcome his aversion to the dissecting, and its disagreeable details, and although his vivacity was almost constant, it was always hushed, while with Harry and myself in the study of this essentially practical branch of medicine. ‘ To banish sad thoughts, and keep off the blues,” as he said, “he always adjourned to a glass of half and half, or hot whiskey punch.” He was earnestly expostulated with, and tears often stood in Harry’s eyes as he plead with him to stop ere the serppnt coils were twined around his soul. But alas! pleading was in vain and we were obliged to see onr friend hurrying along the broad road to ruin. I'or a long time his evenings were spent at home, and we were always glad to listen to the rich tones of his mellow voice as he read some of his favorite authors. But ns time wore on these happy hours were seldom allowed ns, and now and then we would hear of some of his mirth and fun, which was like the wild pranks of a madman. As he descend ed step by step, the awful conviction forced itself upon our minds, that John Wilson would soon be a drunkard. He withdrew more and more from Welwood and myself, and finally took other lodgings, and desert ed us altogether. He had hosts of parasiti cal friends, and now, all checks being re moved, his downward course became fear fully rapid. In his sober moments the still small voice of conscience would appeal to him so beseechingly, that he was fain to drown it in the wine cup. Wilson was lost, and lost as hundreds are lost. Welwood informed me one evening, that he did not feel well. He had scratched his finger in the morning with his scalpel, and though he had applied caustic it was still quite painful. 1 felt his pulse and found it but slightly accelerated, lie would not allow me to send for Dr. M. with whom he was an especial favorite, but told me that if he felt worse during the night he would call me. Towards morning 1 was roused by hearing him groan. He com plained of severe pain extending up the arm—had considerable fever, and hiscoun tcnance wore an expression of anxiety—l at once addressed a note to Dr. M., desiring him to come as soon as possible. When he arrived he endeavored to cheer us by kindly words, but I could see by bis man ner while giving me directions, that it was likely to prove a bad case. At twelve he called again. Harry was much worse, greatly depressed, and sttflering acutely.— But why should I linger overthe sad scene! On the fifth day it was evident poor Wel wood’s end was fast approaching. He called me to his bedside and beggel me to read for him the last two chapters of Ec- clesiastes. As I closed the hook he mur mured, “O', how sweet.” In the evening my father and mother arrived, for they loved him as a son, and while we were all watching soriowfutly around his bed, the door opened, and John Wilson—whom we had not seen for weeks, came in with ail unsteady step. My parents gazed on him with amazement, for the marks of dissipa tion and debauchery were legibly written on his face. No one disturbed the.silence, for Harry had fallen into an unquiet slum ber. As John drew near the bed, he fixed his eyes upon the countenance of his dying friend, and groaned in bitterness, “O! God” —Welwood opened his eyes nnd not re cognising Wilson, asked for drink. As my mother raised his head, Wilson stepped forward and took his hand, “Dear, dear John,” exclaimed Harry, “why have you not come to me before 1 1 have but little lime to live. I feel the death damp on my brow, and yet all is peace within. My strength is going fast, my eyes grow dim, hut before they are closed forever, let me look on you, and beg you to remember that you have a soul, which before long must follow mine, to the spirit land. The worm will soon feed upon this wasted body, but the spirit will return to the God who gave it, Oh! prepare to meet me in heaven. By all the holy memories of the past! by the love you bear your mother! by your fath er’s hopes, I adjure you meet me in heaven.” Harry had spoken with an energy 1 thought him incapable of, feeble as he was, and he now fell back perfectly exhausted in the arms of my mother. Boor Wilson ! his tears gu-hed forth in torrents, and streamed down his pallid cheeks. He threw himself on his knees and endeavored to hide his convulsive sobbing by hurrying his face in the bed-clothes. When Harry revived, be placed his hand in mine, smiled on us all and feebly said, “and go to my faiherand my mother and my God.” There was no struggle, his soul was borne upward by the waiting spirits, and we mourned, nut for him, but for ourselves and our loss. Wilson threw himself upon the lifeless body, and in the agony of his upbraiding conscience almost cursed the God that made him. He followed Welwood to the grave —he spoke no word—shed no tear and to lire earnest entreaty of my parents that he would return home with them he gave a positive “No.” For awhile he kept his room—became gloomy and morose and one day when I called upon him, lie said to me “Frank, 1 shall die soon. Will you fol low me to my graved 1 will not ask you to shed tears of tender compassion overlhe sod that shall cover this broken form, hut for the days that are gone—for the holies we once cherished—l would have you see me laid away in the col I, cold grave. — Gud ! shall 1 ever rise again ? 1 begged him to look around or. the world, and see how bright it was. I told him of his fond father and his mother's love. Os the case with which he might regain his position — but he checked me and passionately ex claimed, “The world is bright, but it is a vain illusion. My father and my mother! They never told me that I must die, but fed me with hopes of happ ness in this world, and now they must reap as they have sown. Place! Position! Life! Ha, ha—l am dead already,” and he laughel wildly, aye! fearfully. 1 besought him to be calm, and hale him adieu, with the promise of seeing him again in the even ing. Much to my regret, 1 was the next day called from the city, to which I did not return for some time. As soon as 1 reach ed town again, I hastened to Wilson’s lodgings. My soul recoils at the sight I witnessed there! Poor John was raving be seeching the physician to keep hack those who were tormenting him—l soon discov ered that he was a victim to delerium tre mens. As I drew near him he spuing to the farthest side of the bed and a-ked me why I had come to witness his torments. “ I only requested you to follow my body to the grave,” he continued, “ why have you pursued my soul to its doomed abode.” Then striking his forehead violently, he murmured as if to himself “’Tis the tramp of lost spirits heating the dead march of my soul.” Thus he raved for a long while —tiil finally he sank exhausted, and ap peared to sleep. \\ orn out by anxiety and the fatigue of travel 1 left him about mid night to seek repose. To my unspeakable horror, 1 was in formed early in the morning, by a note from the attendant physician, that during the night, while the vigilence of Iris attendants was relaxed, John had suspended himself by a silk handkerchief, to a bed post, and that when the attendants woke, life had forever (led. Thus perished the accom plished—the generous-hearted John Wit son